THE bats are busy in moonless eve With the goblin web they seem to weave, Here where the thrush, when morn was high, Published his heart to the passer-by. Twice, o'er the lane, like a guilty thing, The shy owl flitted with noiseless wing, Mid the silent breathing of frond and tree, And of all that debauched the noontide bee. Behind the fir-wood, red and large, The sun went down like a warrior's targe; And full of news from a secret shore, The wanderer, Night, comes to the door. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE ORCHARD PIT by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI THE VIKING by CLARIBEL WEEKS AVERY SONNET: 2 by GWENDOLYN B. BENNETT |